IT was my birthday last weekend, and Bonnie and I were politely asked to “go off and do something for a bit” so some last-minute shopping and wrapping could be carried out.
Faced with the prospect of the weekly supermarket shop or a something more interesting, I decided it was time I put my daughter’s unruly locks in the hands of a professional instead of trying to trim her hair myself. (She never kept still, and squeals if she even catches sight of a hairbrush).
I’m not the most ardent attendee of the salon either. I can just about leave the house each morning without complicating affairs by having to ‘style’ my straight locks into anything more than a ponytail. I might stumble along to a different salon once a year for a trim or to have some highlighter foils put in, but that’s about as girly as I get.
Bonnie, approaching her fourth birthday, was delighted when I suggested she let a complete stranger cut her hair.
For the first time in several weeks, she really was as good as gold (she’s been extending those ‘Terrible Twos’ for at least an additional 10 months, the stroppy little madam).
The hairdresser, Emmy, was lovely with her, popped her on a booster with extra piled up towels so she could have her hair washed ‘backwards’ like the grown-up ladies. Not a single gripe from Her Ladyship.
She particularly liked the ‘up and down chair,’ admiring herself in lots of mirrors and having a proper blow-dry.
Add a couple of sweetie bribes and she thought she’d had the best afternoon ever and thankfully had most of my wonky fringe-hackings remedied. I can’t imagine she’s every going to let me near her with scissors again.